


fair adventure of tomorrow

by plumcat



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fantasy, Kidnapping, M/M, Questing, Swearing, Weapons, bad sense of humor, disastrous pacing, ft roman the disaster gay, implied insecurity, overuse of commas, very mild negative self talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumcat/pseuds/plumcat
Summary: being the embodiment of creativity, roman has a lot of ideas. some are brilliant, some are okay, some are mediocre, and some are downright awful. privately, logan believes that this most recent one falls into the last category, but it’s not like anyone listens to him anyway.so despite logan’s halfhearted protests and virgil’s vehement ones, the sides step through a (suspiciously luminescent) door into roman’s realm— a place of cultivated beauty, endless adventure, and no respect for the laws of science — in pursuit of that flighty temptress, adventure.goddamnit.





	1. in which the adventure begins

_“The day shall not be up so soon as I, to try the fair adventure of tomorrow.”_

_— William Shakespeare_

 

It’s a peaceful day in the mindscape. For once, Thomas has few obligations to attend to, giving the sides a much-needed break from their normal duties. Logan is taking advantage of the reduced need for logical thought by continuing his very important mission of working his way through all seventy-eight Agatha Christie novels, settled into a sensible armchair in the commons.

Virgil is lazily scrolling through tumblr, hanging upside-down over the armrest of the nearby couch (a position that appears both impractical and uncomfortable— Logan wonders passingly if they should invest in a chaise longue); Patton bustles around in the kitchen, making cookies; and Roman is nowhere to be found.

All in all, a nice day, Logan decides, turning a page in his book. Everything is tranquil. Untroubled. Serene. Quie—

“I have a brilliant idea!” Roman sings, swanning into the commons with all the grace and charisma of a prima ballerina. This effect is somewhat stifled by the fact that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, his hair an unmitigated disaster. He’s bouncing on his feet with an almost manic grin on his face, an almost-overflowing mug of coffee in one hand and a rumpled stack of paper held together by a binder clip in the other.

“Here’s an idea,” Virgil says, barely glancing up from his phone, “Put some pants on.”

Roman looks down at his outfit and blinks as he seems to register it for the first time. He sets down the papers and coffee and dashes out. A minute later, he bursts back in, dressed in his usual prince outfit, hair brushed, and appearing a lot less like he just stumbled out of a feverish writing session. His unhinged expression remains unchanged, however, which makes Logan very uneasy.

Virgil moves to sit on the couch like a normal person, eyeing Roman suspiciously. “Why do I already feel like I’m going to hate this.”

Roman ignores him. “Where’s Patton?” he asks.

Patton pokes his head out from the kitchen, flour on his nose. “Here!” he says, going to sit beside Virgil on the couch.

“All right!” Roman exclaims. “Now that I have everyone’s attention— Logan put your book down or I’ll take it myself, thank you— I just decided what we’re going to do for my day of Bonding Week.”

Logan is filled with a rapidly rising sense of dread.  Bonding Week is currently the fourth item on Logan’s List of Grievances To Take Up With The Universe, right behind Roman, Patton, and Virgil. In that order.

“Nope. Goodnight everyone,” Virgil says with his two-fingered salute, attempting to sink out. Patton grabs him by his sweatshirt hood and yanks him back up.

“Now, kiddo,” he says, “We all participated when you chose the activity. Let’s at least give Roman a chance to share his idea.”

Virgil grumbles and flops back into the cushions, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anyway, I’m sure it’s great, just like you are!” Patton continues, beaming at Roman, who turns bright red and splutters incoherently for a moment.

The basic premise of Bonding Week is that each side is given a day to choose an activity for them all to participate in together. According to Patton, it’s supposed to get them to “become more of a famILY”, as if they don’t already spend more than enough time in each other’s company.  To add to Logan’s many, many issues with the concept, the name is ridiculous. It’s not even a week long. There are only four of them. (Well, to be fair, Patton also extended the offer to Deceit, but he just hissed in Patton’s face in spritzed him with a spray bottle filled with apple juice. They had decided it was pretty safe to consider that a no.)

Logan privately hoped that it was terminated after the disastrous Monopoly Incident, but it appears that this is not the case.

“A quest!” Roman is saying, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “In my realm! It’ll be a nice, straightforward, cookie-cutter kind of thing— nice and classy. A forest, a short mountain trek, a small dragon. A princess in a tower.”

Patton gasps. “That sounds like so much fun!”

“That sounds absolutely terrible,” Virgil says.

“I have to agree with Virgil here,” Logan admits. “I would not consider a so-called ‘quest’ an enjoyable or productive use of time. Besides, isn’t it kind of… excessive?”

“And potentially dangerous?” Virgil adds.

Roman’s smile slips from his face, but it bounces back with a vengeance a millisecond later. “Please? I already set up most of it.” He drops to his knees. “Pleaaaase? I’ll make it really safe! And I can dissolve it if anything happens! I promise!”

“Aw, c’mon, guys,” Patton pipes up, sticking out his lip in a plaintive pout, “Don’t you trust Roman?”

Virgil and Logan exchange looks.

“No,” they say in perfect unison.

Roman claps a hand to his chest, affronted. “Excuse me! I’m a prince! I’ll have you know that I take my word very seriously.”

This is true. Whether by his own moral code or some outside force, Roman seems to be physically incapable of breaking a promise. Though mostly an admirable trait, it once created a very awkward situation involving a dead rat and several soy sauce packets.

“What about Thomas?” Logan asks. “If all of us are in the imagination, wouldn’t that produce potential negative effects on his mental state?”

“We still subconsciously ‘work’ as long as we’re within the mindscape. Besides, Thomas isn’t really doing anything right now.”

Damn. He’s done his research.

Both Roman and Patton are turning their best plaintive faces towards him (Roman’s looks a bit more like a stressed duck, but the sentiment is there) and Logan can feel his resolve cracking. It still doesn’t exactly sound pleasurable, but he can’t think of a logical reason to refuse, and making the right sides upset is an outcome that he likes to avoid if at all possible.

“Fine,” Logan says before he can think better of it.

“I’ve been betrayed,” Virgil mutters darkly.

Roman grins. “Looks like you’re outnumbered, Surly Temple! Three to one!” He executes a flawless pirouette, clapping his hands. “Marvelous! None of you will have to do anything, just meet me in front of my room in an hour. It’ll be fun, I swear!” And with that, he grabs his papers and coffee, twirls towards the door, trips over his own feet, faceplants into the carpet, spills his drink everywhere, and decides to sink out instead.

Patton sighs dreamily, propping his chin in his hand and staring at the place where Roman disappeared. “Isn’t he just wonderful?”

An hour later, Logan is already beginning to have regrets. They’re all assembled in the hallway in front of the door to Roman’s realm, which is aglow around the edges with yellow-orange light.

Roman is cheerfully distributing backpacks to all of them. They’re the old fashioned kind, made of leather and rolled at the tops, and surprisingly heavy for their size. Logan opens his and pokes around. Immediately visible are a couple pots and pans, a few pairs of socks, some granola bars, and a bear canister. He sticks his hand into the bag. It swallows his arm all the way up to the shoulders, far deeper than it outwardly appears, and his fingers aren’t even brushing the bottom yet.

“How long is this quest going to be, exactly?” Logan asks.

Roman shrugs, shouldering his backpack. “I’m not sure. Time’s pretty screwy in the imagination. A few days, maybe?”

“A few _days_?” Virgil says.

“Well, yeah. Give or take.”

Logan puts on his pack. It’s pretty weighty, but it fits around his shoulders with a surprising amount of comfort. He still has a lot of questions about how Roman’s managed to break the laws of matter yet again, but he knows that asking any of them would only garner an infuriatingly cryptic answer of “magic.”

“Next order of business,” Roman says, once everyone has their packs on, “Getting into character. As you can see, I’m a prince.” He waves a hand around his face. “So you all are g—”

“Can I be a princess?” Patton interrupts.

“By definition, the term ‘princess’ designates a female, so it’s impossible for—” Logan starts, but he is cut off by identical vicious glares from Virgil and Roman.

“Yes, Patton,” Virgil says, still staring pointedly at Logan, his voice dangerous, “You can _absolutely_ be a princess.”

Roman puts his hands on Patton’s waist and lifts him up, spinning him around in a circle. Patton’s image blurs, going fuzzy and shifting around the edges, and when Roman sets him back down his usual attire has transformed. He’s now wearing a dress, designed to mimic a medieval style, and though the results are historically inaccurate, Logan has to admit that they are aesthetically pleasing.

The gown falls to his ankles, a light-catching velvety overlay that parts in the center to reveal a cream colored petticoat. The bodice is patterned with a criss-cross design, strips of fabric interlocked, the ivory hue peeking out between stripes of blue. Patton lifts up his arms to examine the sleeves, which are tighter from shoulder to elbow and then flow outward into a wide cup, the edges trimmed with intricate gold embroidery.

“Oh!” Patton squeaks, “it’s so pretty! And soft!”

“You like it?” Roman asks.

“I love it!”

Roman glows, grabbing Patton’s hand and pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. “I’m glad. You look gorgeous.”

They take a moment to gaze into each other’s eyes in a way that is totally platonic and definitely not indicative of needless mutual pining. The moment ends. Another moment passes. Another. Now it’s just getting awkward. Virgil clears his throat and they spring apart.

As soon as Roman turns towards Logan, Patton reverently clutches the hand that the creative side kissed to his chest, looking for all the world like a lovestruck teenager.

“You’re next, Specs!” Roman trills.

“Am I required to participate?”

In response, Roman snaps his fingers, transitioning into pointing at Logan with a swirl of his wrist. Logan’s skin tingles as his clothes change, the fabric shifting and writhing, sleeves elongating. The transformation lasts for only a couple seconds, but no matter how many times it happens, he can never get used to the sheer weirdness of the sensation.

He glances down at himself. He’s wearing some sort of white tunic with a navy blue sleeveless doublet over it, imprinted with a repetitive pattern of leafy swirls. It’s paired with some black trousers and soft leather boots that go up to mid-calf. The whole ensemble is surprisingly tasteful. Well, as tasteful as it gets when it comes to fallacious Gothic clothing.

“I suppose it could be worse,” he says after a moment.

Seemingly satisfied with the response, Roman levels his fashion designer gaze at Virgil, who shrinks backward, pulling his arms tightly around himself.

“Oh no,” he says, “Not today, Satan. You take my hoodie and you die.”

“Please?”

Virgil hisses at him. Viciously.

Griping under his breath about the “ruined aesthetic”, Roman heads over towards the door to the Imagination and kicks it open with one swift motion.

A flood of golden light that rushes out from the door, causing Virgil to cringe backward, shielding his eyes. Roman stands there for a moment, hands on hips, swaddled in the glow, his frame darkened into striking silhouette.

“Onwards, comrades!” he shouts, lifting a fist in the air. “In pursuit of that flighty temptress, adventure!” He runs forward and seems to disappear, engulfed in the luminescence. Patton quickly hurries after him, vanishing from view as well.

“You know,” Virgil says thoughtfully, “We could just close the door and run.”

Logan is already beginning to abandon his backpack. “That is an excellent idea.”

“We can hear you, you know!” Roman shouts from the other side. “If you don’t go through in ten seconds I’m coming to get you!”

“Damn it!” Virgil says.

“Ten! Nine!” Patton and Roman are yelling together. “Eight! Seven!”

Logan holds out his arm, resigned to his fate. “It appears that we have no choice.”

Virgil links his elbow with Logan’s. “We’ll figure out some way to ditch them later.”

“Four! Three!”

They run through the doorway together. The light is even more overpowering than when they were standing in the hallway, seeming to shift and swirl and bend around itself in intricate motifs. Logan closes his eyes but it doesn’t help— it’s still there, still painful, the patterns penetrating beyond his eyelids. He hears Virgil wince from beside him.

Logan can’t see anything ahead or behind him, can barely feel Virgil’s arm laced through his. It’s just the all-consuming brightness. His feet are moving, running, but they’re not hitting any kind of surface. Has it been seconds? Hours?

Suddenly, Logan and Virgil crash through some kind of barrier. The world immediately darkens, and Logan loses balance, toppling forward in surprise. His feet collide with solid ground and his face follows suit not a second later.

Someone is laughing.

Logan rolls over to sit up, squinting as his eyes adjust to the change in lighting. Everything is still oddly blurry, though— Oh, wait, his glasses are missing.

A hand suddenly appears in front of his face, and he squints at it, tracing the fuzzy beige blur of an arm upward to a larger, fuzzy beige blur perched atop an even larger fuzzy blue blur. Patton. Logan takes the help and clambers to his feet, nodding gratefully when Patton hands him his glasses.

It appears that Logan took Virgil down with him when he fell, as the hoodie-clad side is  currently lying on the ground on his back, staring up at the sky with a blank expression on his face. Roman stands over him, laughing hysterically and making no move to help him up.

As Patton hurries over to be a better person than Roman, Logan takes stock of their surroundings. Roman hadn’t been kidding when he had said “cookie-cutter”— They’re in a forest pulled straight out of every single storybook and Disney movie ever. They’re surrounded by trees as far as the eye can see, wide, glossy trunks extending upward in perfect cylinders, lanky branches reaching up to brush the pale blue sky.

The forest floor is covered with underbrush and soft green moss, dappled with patches of sunlight and softly swaying shadows of the leaves on the trees above. Small stones and bright bunches of wildflowers are placed at regular intervals, as well as some (highly unrealistic) red-and-white spotted mushrooms.

And naturally, right in front of them extends a beautiful meandering path, wide and clear as day and sprinkled with fallen leaves.

Virgil is on his feet now, sticking his tongue out at a still-snickering Roman and dusting dirt off himself. He looks around, taking in the woods with a raised eyebrow.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Roman says proudly, puffing his chest out.

“I suppose our current surroundings are visually agreeable,” Logan concedes.

“So,” Patton chirps, “Can we get going?”

“Actually,” Roman says, taking off his backpack and beginning to rummage through it, “Let me check the map first.”

“There is a path right there,” Logan points out.

“Well, it might not be the _right_ path. Here, hold this.” Roman passes Virgil a frying pan. “And this.” A red-and-white windbreaker. “And this.” A headlamp. “And this.” A sponge. “And—”

“I’m not a _shelf_ ,” Virgil says, indignant, as Roman hands him two bottles of sunscreen.

“Aha!” Roman pulls out a sheet of paper, folded into quarters, and shakes it out. “You can put the stuff down now, Virge.”

Virgil unceremoniously drops it onto the ground.

Logan leans to read over Roman’s shoulder as he turns the map around several times in an attempt to get it oriented. Patton pops up at Roman’s other side and Virgil, pretending not to be curious, wanders over to stand by Patton and peer at the map out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ve already drawn out the route. The door is just behind us,” Roman explains, pointing at a brown, rectangular icon at the bottom left corner of the map, “And we’re heading this way, towards the mountains, so we’ll have to go down…  that path.”

He turns and gestures to his right, nearly whacking Patton in the face in the process. Upon closer examination, there is in fact, a path where he’s indicating, but it’s thin and scraggly and is less of a defined walkway than a slight flattening of the underbrush in a vague line.

Of course. Logan stifles a sigh.

Roman takes the lead, as he possesses the map and the greatest amount of experience regarding the outdoors. Patton skips just behind him, peppering Roman with questions, and occasionally falls back to pick a flower or examine a lizard on a rock, but always hurries back to the front.

Logan keeps a purposeful distance behind Patton. There’s something about nature’s unique beauty, however artificial it may be, that inspires something in Logan, and he desires to appreciate it in peace.

Virgil brings up the rear. Probably. He might have deserted them by this point. If so, Logan wishes him godspeed, though the thought having to deal with Patton and Roman’s incessant infatuated sighing alone is a terrifying one. Regardless, the bird songs ringing through the trees, accompanied by the rhythmic crunch of footsteps and the faint rise and fall of Patton’s voice as he chatters at Roman, provide a soothing backdrop for some deep thinking.

They’ve been walking for some time— an hour, maybe two— and Logan is currently in the middle of an impassioned debate with himself over whether or not a hot dog is a sandwich when Roman shouts, “Halt!”

Logan’s far back enough that Roman and Patton are blobs in the distance, so he  continues walking towards them. When he catches up, he finds Roman scowling and shaking his fist up at the sky while Patton looks on, puzzled. After a minute, Virgil appears.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Roman points upward, wordless, and Logan tilts his head back to look. His eyes skim the streaky sheets of blue rising softly above the treetops, unsure what the fanciful side is referring to at first. He follows the line of Roman’s directive finger to the edge of the sky, where a flushed pink sunset is beginning to seep through, as if someone took a piece of robin’s-egg cloth and dipped the end in a bucket of pink paint.

Wait.

“That does not seem right,” Logan says, frowning. “We departed at around three in the afternoon. Sunset should not be for another three or four hours.”

Roman folds his arms, still squinting upwards in annoyance, as if the sky did something to personally offend him. “Time is pretty much a construct here. Sometimes a day will be three hours, and other times it’ll be, like, a week.”

Logan blinks. “Wh—”

“Don’t think about it too hard, Specs, you’ll only give yourself a headache. Anyway, I can normally influence it, but this dreamscape is more… controlled than the stuff I usually do, so it isn’t working. This throws off my whole schedule.”

“Since when do you do schedules?” Logan asks. He is ignored.

“Well, that doesn’t seem so bad,” Patton says. “We can just set up camp and call it a day for now. Or we could walk at night.”

“Look,” Virgil says. “There are things that I will hate but grudgingly accept, and things that I will not. I draw the line at walking through some random forest at _night,_ in the _dark,_ with wolves and spiders and things, where we can’t even see when we’re about to be _killed_.”

“Spiders?!” Patton squeaks.

“Imaginary spiders,” Roman says quickly, “They’re all imaginary! I mean, if there were any! Which there aren’t! But I’d kill them for you!”

Patton still looks upset, so Logan pats his head in a gesture of reassurance that he has seen Patton employ on small, similarly distressed creatures such as dogs, cats, and Virgil. Patton relaxes slightly.

They decide to make camp, mostly because Virgil makes it pretty clear that he isn’t going to take another step either way. It doesn’t take them long to find a suitable campsite— Probably due, in part, to the cultivated perfection of Roman’s fantasy world. It’s a clearing a short ways off the path, relatively flat, with a clustering of large rocks on one side.

Patton and Virgil begin pitching the tents, which doesn’t seem to be going very well, judging from the fact that Patton is currently on the ground, flailing underneath a tarp. Logan starts going through the backpacks, removing and sorting objects that appear to be of immediate use.  

(Roman’s pack has several crumpled drafts of love letters to Patton stuffed in the front pocket. Since Logan is sometimes a kind soul, he quickly puts them back. Ugh. Feelings.)

Roman stands near Logan, tapping his foot as he squints at the map. It’s upside down. Since Logan is sometimes not such a kind soul, he does not inform him of this fact. After a few more seconds, he figures it out on his own.

“Hey, nerd,” Roman says, “Pass me my pack, will you?”

Logan does, and Roman all but dives into it before emerging with two large wooden buckets that, by all normal rules of the universe, should not be able to fit in there, goddamnit.

“We need water,” Roman informs him, holding out a bucket.

“So go get it.”

“I need you to come with me.”

“No.”

Further argument is wordlessly exchanged through the use of exaggerated facial expressions, glasses adjustment, and hand gestures. They get sidetracked and end up wiggling their eyebrows at one another for a solid minute before Logan feels stupid and stops.

“Fine,” he concedes, taking the bucket. “Let’s go.”

“Yess!” Roman cheers, grabbing Logan’s arm and dragging him towards the path, waving cheerily at Patton and Virgil, who are both caught in the tarp and screaming.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Logan asks, once they’ve started walking.

“There’s a river some ways away that runs across the path we’ve been walking on,” Roman explains, waving his hand in front of him. “It’s not too far of a walk. We’re actually going to have to cross it tomorrow.”

Logan mentally files that information away before moving on to his next question. “Why did you want _me specifically_ to accompany you on this errand?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” Roman trills, batting his eyelashes at Logan.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re right, you’re not,” Roman says. “But Virgil drew mustaches on all the characters on my Disney posters last week— Don’t roll your eyes at me, Logan, it’s a serious offense— and Patton is far beyond best friend status, so, you know. Process of elimination and all that.”

“How flattering,” Logan says drily. “I suppose I should be grateful that I come before Deceit, at least.”

“Actually,” Roman starts, thoughtful, “He _did_ tell me that he liked my makeup yesterday.”

“He’s the _literal personification_ of— You know what, nevermind. Please explain what you require from me so that we can get this interaction over with.”

Roman bites at his lip for a moment, looking thoughtful and almost nervous.

“I need relationship advice,” he says finally.

Logan stares at him.  “Not from me, you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” he insists. “You’re really smart, Logan.”

“Oh, I know,” Logan says, “But things involving as love, affection and — god forbid — feelings are not my area of expertise, as you are well aware.”

“You’re friends with Patton, though,” Roman presses. This is odd. He has ranted to Logan about his crush on multiple occasions, complete with faux swooning and the recitation of Shakespeare, but never before has he actually asked for _advice_. “What does he like?”

Alright, now he’s just being daft.

“You know what Patton likes,” Logan says, exasperated. “Puppies, cartoons, hugs, chocolate chip cookies, soft things—”

“I mean, what does he like in _guys_.”

“Um… faces? Eyes? A functional consciousness?”

“I’m being serious, Logan. What do I have to be to get him to like me?”

 _God,_ Logan thinks, _why do you run around in circles chasing who you aren’t when who you are is more than enough for him? Do everything you normally do, and he’ll love you like he already does, like the world already does, because you understand the one thing I don’t— how to love and how to be loved._

But Logan doesn’t say this. He and Roman are not honest kind of friends.

“Just be yourself,” he says lamely. The words sound hollow even to him.

Roman huffs out a breath, a not-quite laugh, but says nothing.

They walk further, and the silence that Logan enjoyed so much earlier now feels awkward and stifling. He said the wrong thing, he can tell, but isn’t it Roman’s fault for asking him for advice in the first place; isn’t it true, in the end?

Time passes. They come to the river. It’s about six feet across, and appears fairly deep, with clear, rushing water carving a snaking line through the tall grass. The high banks are framed with cattails and smooth, scattered stones. Dragonflies drift in lazy loops through the mild sky, which is beginning to soak into a soft lavender.

They work together silently to fill the buckets, which is a fairly quick process. When they’re finished, Roman sighs, stuffs the hand not holding a bucket into his pocket and stares out over the water, screwing up his face to chew at the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s nervous or sad or both.

And Logan— Logan’s thinking. This is about more than Patton, Logan knows at some base level, but he can’t decipher it. He can’t see into feelings and social cues and figure out what’s really going on, what Roman really needs to hear, because those aren’t things you can learn and understand and pick apart and analyze. Those are things you have to _know_.

So Logan’s lost, and he’s resigned to that, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Look,” he says, as gently as he can manage, “You are in charge of many of Thomas’ romantic and emotional functions, Roman. I have no doubt that you are entirely capable of doing and being all that you wish to.”

Roman is silent for a moment.

“Thanks, ” he says, quiet, before his face splits into a grin, usual bravado returning with a force that nearly gives Logan whiplash. “Hey, what do you want to bet that I can run back to the camp without spilling this?”

He lifts the bucket up over his head and starts running.

“Don’t hold it like that, you bumbling idiot, you’re going to— Goddamnit.” Logan groans, grabbing his bucket and chasing after him.

Logan doesn’t do much physical activity, so he’s panting and sweating after barely a minute has passed, and water is slopping from his bucket onto his sleeves and front with almost every step he takes and he’s cold and uncomfortable and exasperated, but it’s okay.

It’s okay, because Roman’s laughing, and it’s okay because now they’re back at the campsite and Patton is pointing proudly at the two upright tents, and it’s okay because Virgil is grinning at him and taking the bucket, asking, “Went for a swim, poindexter?” and it’s okay because the adventure isn’t over yet.

In fact, it’s just beginning.


	2. in which things go sideways

Virgil can’t sleep.

He’s tired, so tired, but his head feels weird and his nose is stuffed up and there might be wolves outside and it’s too hot in his sleeping bag and too cold out of it and worst of all, Roman snores. He also has even less regard for personal space than he does when awake, and is sprawled out like a starfish, his long limbs strewn about at odd angles, taking up 95% of the tent floor’s surface area and leaving Virgil with approximately one square foot of space in which to huddle up into a grumpy ball.

For the millionth time, he tries to shove Roman back onto his side of the tent— or at least get his arm out of Virgil’s face—  but Roman is tall and broad and frequently engages in activities such as dragon fighting and cardio, whereas Virgil has noodle arms.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. He reaches down to shake Roman’s shoulder. “Okay, ya big lump, time to wake up.”

Roman doesn’t move.

He shakes a bit harder. “Seriously, Princey, I need to sleep too, you know.”

Nothing.

Virgil knows that Roman is a heavy sleeper, but this is getting ridiculous. 

_ I should have made him share with Patton, _ Virgil thinks bitterly. But Virgil isn’t a mean person, and sharing a close proximity with a crush believed to be unrequited (whether or not it’s true) is a special kind of fresh hell. Goddamn his kind, selfless nature.

Virgil crawls over to the front of the tent, unzipping the door and sticking his head out, taking a few long, grateful inhales of the cool night. The skies are bright and cloudless, with nothing to inhibit Virgil’s view of the many stars twinkling above him like glittering diamonds scattered by a generous hand. It’s a bit humid, the air heavy and sweetened with fading remnants of campfire smoke, a crackling wire, alive and animated even in the relative stillness. 

Maybe the fresh air will do him good, Virgil thinks— god knows his head could do with a bit of clearing. He steps out, closing the tent behind him, not bothering to put on shoes. The grass is soft and dewy beneath his feet, and he tucks himself a bit deeper into his hoodie when a brisk breeze ruffles his hair, winding around his face and neck like a playful puppy.

His thoughts turn briefly back to Roman and Patton, and he can’t stifle an exasperated sigh. He can only stand to witness so much wholesome romance before she starts to feel the need to punch a stuffed animal or something in order to regain his cynicism.

Plus, he has a suspicion that the pining won’t let up anytime soon without outside influence. It took them a ridiculous amount of time to even to figure out that they liked each other in the first place, which was painful to watch but hilarious nonetheless. Virgil may have (many, many, many) faults, but at least he’s not so stupid as to not realize that he has a crush when they’re right in front of—

“Virgil?”

He shrieks and jumps about a foot in the air, whirling around and getting a faceful of blinding light, which causes him to scream again.

The beam of light moves out of his face, and once Virgil and his eyes recover, he can see that he’s almost nose-to-nose with a sleepy, puzzled-looking Logan, with no glasses and his usually impeccably styled hair mussed and sticking up all over the place. He’s dressed more casually than Virgil’s ever seen him, in blue plaid pajama pants and a loose fitting black t-shirt, a flashlight clutched to his chest. 

The moonlight draws a soft, silvery cast over across the otherwise shadowed planes of his face, making him look sharper, almost ethereal. He blinks blearily at Virgil, and they’re close enough together that Virgil can see the arc of his eyelashes, the freckles scattered across his nose like stars and…  oh wait, he’s saying something.

“I apologize,” Logan says, taking a step back. “I did not intend to startle you.”

“Oh,” Virgil says, shakily, his heart pounding. From the scare. Obviously. “I— it’s perfectly fine. Hi, Logan.”

“What was that?” Patton calls, his voice seeming to come from about fifteen feet to their left. “Who just screamed? Logan? Logan, are you dying?”

“Virgil, Virgil, that’s my name and no,” Logan answers. He turns back to Virgil. “What are you doing up so late?”

Virgil shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

“Patton thought he heard a noise outside and insisted that I go investigate,” Logan sighs, then raises his voice. “Though  _ personally  _ I think that it is a waste of time.

There’s a pause. Shuffling. The sound of a tent unzipping. Footsteps. And then Patton pads into view, wearing his cat onesie, and glancing around nervously.

“I know I heard something,” he says. “If  _ you’re _ not going to look properly then I will.” He holds out a hand, expectant, and Logan rolls his eyes, passing him the flashlight.

Patton pans it in a slow circle around the huddled group of three, the beam illuminating objects within its spotlight in a orange-yellow glow and then plunging them back into the tangible, ever-shifting darkness— a tree trunk, the rocks, the corner of a tent, the unlit fire pit, a cluster of bushes. It’s as if nothing exists unless its illuminated, like they’re free-floating in a swirling, tangible mass of blackness with no way to know if anything is really there beyond what they can see of it.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl cries.

“Can’t we just go back to sleep?” Logan says. “This—”

The beam hits a cluster of trees and in the split second before the circle moves further to the left, they all see. There’s something there, a flash of a silhouette, unidentifiable, but unquestionable, maybe a person, maybe a bear, maybe something worse.

Patton swings it back.

There’s nothing there.

They stand there in tense silence, staring, thinking, and anxiety begins to curl in Virgil’s gut, but it’s not quite panic yet, and almost exhilarating, like watching a horror movie at a sleepover and screaming in tandem with your best friend.

“What was that?” Patton whispers. The hand that’s holding the flashlight is shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s probably a moose or something,” Virgil tries.

“That wouldn’t be a good thing,” Logan says unhelpfully. “In America, moose injure more people than any other wild mammal.”

Patton whimpers.

“Thanks a lot, Einstein,” Virgil hisses.

“It’s a fact! I’m the facts guy!”

“Guys, be quiet!” Patton says. “Do you hear that?”

_ Rustle. Rustle.  _

They all freeze, listening tensely. Patton is holding the flashlight, but with his hand still, angled towards the ground, so that the only thing Virgil can properly see is his slippered foot and the patch of ground surrounding it.

The noise stops at intervals, then resumes, vague enough that the direction where it’s coming from is difficult to identify, as if there are multiple similar noises overlapping one another, somehow omnipresent in its lack of clarity.

_ Rustle. Rustle.  _

Patton’s eyes are blown wide and his lower lip is quivering. Logan’s face is impassive but he’s tightly gripping his forearms with his hands, tapping his fingers there in a nervous tattoo. One and two and three. One and two and three.

_ Rustle. Rustle. _

Is it getting louder?

“Patton, give me the flashlight,” Virgil whispers.

“FREEZE!”

Suddenly the clearing is bathed in light, many high-powered flashlight beams overlapping one another so that the ground is filled with a pattern of partly coinciding circles. Virgil cringes backward, shielding his eyes.

After a moment, he peeks out from between his fingers and feels his heart drop. They’re surrounded by about two dozen people. They vary greatly in appearance, but there’s a quality that they all share, something flat and forgettable, with indistinct features and nothing particularly memorable that makes a single one stand out from the rest. Most concerningly, they’re wearing chainmail and carrying various medieval weapons, from silver swords to long, supple spears, all pointed inwards in their direction, sharpened edges glinting menacingly.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Virgil mutters.

“Do not move,” says one person, and though a red-plumed helmet shields most of their face, making their voice metallic and tinny, their words carry a sense of practiced authority. “You’re coming with us.”

“Straight out of a crime drama,” Logan muses. “Highly uninspired dialogue. Who writes this material? Is it automatically generated, or—”

Virgil elbows him. He shuts up. 

They are led out of the clearing by four people to some sort of old-fashioned carriage parked in the midst of the path. It’s the horse drawn kind, and would not be out of place in a Disney movie, with its large round wheels and gold brocade, except that there aren’t any horses in sight. It’s just kind of sitting there.

The people haven’t shown any kind of inclination towards violence, despite the weapons— they seem pretty chill, dazed, almost— but it’s better to be safe than sorry, so Virgil doesn’t try to resist. Logan is struggling subtly, stepping on the feet of their captors at every opportunity, and Patton is attempting to engage one of them in a conversation to no avail.

Someone swings open the door and they are practically shoved inside. Virgil stumbles forward, his face colliding painfully with Logan’s back. He hears the door close behind them, and once his brain has caught up with the situation, he takes stock of their surroundings.

It certainly doesn’t look as if they’re being taken prisoner. The inside of the compartment is lavish and well-lit, with intertwining floral engravings dancing across in the lacquered walls and a red carpet languishing across the floor, so plush that Virgil’s foot sinks into it slightly when he takes a step.

Two benches, cushioned with velvet pillows of the same lipstick hue, extend gracefully out of the walls, facing each other. Virgil takes a seat on the left side, nearest the window and peeks outwide. A group of the soldier-people are going through their tents. He scowls at them through the glass.

A moment later, another person opens the door and practically tosses in Roman, who is somehow still asleep. He flops over across the bench on the right side of the carriage, his head falling into Patton’s lap. Patton awkwardly tries to find a good spot to rest his hands.

“He wouldn’t wake up,” the person says, eyeing Roman with no small measure of concern. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I ask myself the same question every day,” Logan mutters. Patton tuts, affronted on Roman’s behalf, and swats his shoulder.

Logan reaches up to grab the spot, frowning. “What is the cause of this aggression both of you seem to be harboring towards me today?”

Patton and Virgil exchange looks. Patton winces. “Logan, kiddo, when all of this is over I think it’s time for another discussion about tact.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow at Logan, amused. “Is that a frequent occurrence?”

“It’s happened one time!  _ One time! _ And was completely unnecessary, might I add! I have  _ plenty _ of tact!”

A disbelieving pause.

“... I just choose not to employ it.”

The person, who has been standing in the doorway for the entirety of that conversation, slowly backs away, glancing between them before scampering off, their question still unanswered. Soon after, the carriage begins moving, abruptly shooting forward at high speed, causing Patton to squeak, Virgil to hiss, Roman to fall off of Patton’s lap and onto the floor, and Logan to sigh, rubbing his temples as if feeling a headache approaching.

Patton and Logan have lifted Roman back onto the bench to sit beside Patton and busy themselves by trying to wake him. The world blurs by outside the window, dimly lit greens and browns and blacks and the sprinkled stars across the top of the scene smudging and warping through the foggy glass into a dripping tableau, and Virgil feels an all-too-familiar panic begin to curl in his gut.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong with Roman? Where are they taking us? Who are these people? Are they going to kill us? Oh my god, we’re gonna die. What happens to Thomas if we die? I can’t die today. I still haven’t finished the fifth season of—”

“Calm down, kiddo,” Patton says gently, resting a hand on his knee. “Just breathe. It’s all going to be okay.”

Virgil closes his eyes and counts in time with Patton’s fingers tapping softly on his leg until his breathing slows to normal. He opens one eye.

“How can you possibly know that?” he asks.

“Roman promised it’d all be safe, didn’t he?”

“And you trust him.”

They both turn to look at Roman, who is propped up against the side of the carriage, cheek pressed against the wall, pushing up one side and and distorting his face into an expression of strained confusion. His mouth is slightly open and drool runs out of one corner, dripping down his chin. Logan is prodding at him with the intense, almost maniacal gaze of a scientist studying their test subject.

“I have complete faith in Roman,” Patton says, unconvincingly.

Logan draws back from Roman and dusts his hands of imaginary grime. “He doesn’t appear to be experiencing any kind of physical damage, external or otherwise,” he reports. “His breathing and heartbeat are both regular, and his state is akin to that of sleep in the deepest point of the REM cycle. If not for his apparent inability to wake, I would not be worried.”

“But you  _ are _ worried,” Virgil hedges.

“I hate to say it,” Logan sighs, “But since we are in a realm where the universe’s normal laws do not apply, it would be illogical to dismiss the possibility… Roman’s state seems to akin to media depictions of a so-called ‘cursed slumber.’”

“... Like in Sleeping Beauty?” Patton asks.

“Exactly like in Sleeping Beauty.”

“That sounds very  _ not good _ ,” says Patton.

“It is no more than a theory,” Logan says, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands over his stomach. “With no sufficient evidence to either disprove or support it, I am in no position to make definitive claims.”

Virgil mulls this over. “But it is a possibility.”

“That is what I said. An unlikely one, yes, but a possibility nonetheless.”

“How unlikely is it, though?” he observes. “We’re in a fantasy world created by  _ Roman _ , of all people. This Disney shit is what he lives for.”

(“Language!” Patton admonishes.)

“Please allow me to pretend that my life still has at least some semblance of sanity,” Logan says dryly. “This has already been quite a day.”

“Is it just me or is this thing slowing down?” Patton asks.

It is, in fact, Virgil realizes. He peers out the window to see that what was previously a heady blur of shape and color is slowly sectioning off and becoming more defined, globs of forest melting into individual trees. About another minute passes, and the carriage grinds to a stop. Logan gets up and tries the door. It doesn’t budge. He continues to try and fiddle with it, throwing his weight into his attempts, until it abruptly swings open, sending Logan tumbling clear out of the carriage. 

They hear a soft  _ thump _ followed by a “Oof.”

“Very dignified,” Virgil says dryly, stepping down from the carriage and raising his eyebrow at Logan, who is currently lying face up in the grass.

“Looks like you just got  _ schooled _ , huh, Teach?” Patton chirps from behind Virgil.

“Leave me here to die,” says Logan.

Virgil rolls his eyes and expectantly holds out a hand, which Logan takes, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Alright,” says one of the strange warrior-people, the one with the red-plumed helmet (they seem to be the leader) coming up from behind them. “Get your weird unconscious friend and let’s go. We have places to be.”

“What exactly are those places?” Virgil asks. “What if we don’t want to go there?”

Red Plume casually unsheaths their sword and examines the blade.

“... Point taken.”

“You may want to get of the way,” Patton calls, and Virgil leaps to the side seconds before Patton veritably  _ throws _ Roman out of the carriage, narrowly avoiding getting a faceful of Princey. Logan catches Roman with some difficulty, stumbling backwards and nearly getting knocked into the ground once again.

“That was highly dangerous,” Logan says, trying not to collapse under Roman’s weight.

“He can’t actually get hurt, though, right?” Patton asks. “This is all fantasy.”

Logan gives him a mysterious look. “Is it?”

A pause.

“ _ Excuse me _ ,” Virgil says, offended, “Being creepy and cryptic is  _ my _ thing.”

Red Plume coughs pointedly. “Ahem? Places to be!”

Logan and Patton, after much struggling, manage to pick up Roman in a two-person fireman’s carry— Patton with his arms wrapped around Roman’s chest and Logan standing in front of him, holding Roman’s legs. Virgil wants to help but isn’t sure how, so he hovers awkwardly around the edges in case Roman falls or something.

The strange warrior-people have by now dispersed, and only Red Plume remains, who guides them to walk forwards and slightly to the left with minimal prodding. Virgil isn’t sure where they’re heading— In front of them is nothing but an enormous structure of rocks— but once they get closer, Virgil sees that there’s a dark gap in said rocks that looks like… a door. Just large enough for an average person to step into.

“Just through here,” says Red Plume.

“Is this a  _ cave _ ?” Virgil asks. 

Kidnapping, fine. Weapons, fine. Creepy cursed slumber, fine. But caves? Potentially filled with bears, spiders, and death? This is the breaking point. He can put up with magical nonsense  _ or _ normal nonsense on a given day, but not both.  _ Not fucking both. _

Not that they have a choice. Red Plume shoves him forward, and he reluctantly follows Logan and Patton inside. They’re walking through small, dark corridor, tight and cool around the edges, and Virgil reaches forward and rests a hand on Patton’s shoulder. Just to be sure he’s real. Just to be sure they won’t disappear.

All he can hear is footsteps, the quiet thump of shoes on stone resounding in a rhythmic tattoo, and all he can see is the darkness, the pressing, tangible darkness worming its way around his eyelids.

And then, suddenly, it all falls away. Virgil looks up and feels his jaw drop.

They’re in a room of sorts. It’s surprisingly large compared with the size of the door, with high ceilings, smoothly sloping walls, and curving passageways extending in front of them in varying directions. Except for the floor, all the surfaces are covered with crystals in all different colors, sparkling and never stagnant, their appearances constantly shifting. They give off a soft glow, casting a silvery gleam across everything in their vicinity, as if the air has been infused with strands of moonlight.

“Whoa!” Patton gasps, eyes whizzing across the room as if trying to drink it all in at once.

“Fascinating,” Logan whispers, eyes shining. 

Their voices strangely echo through the space, booming and metallic like the enormity of a clink of a sword on another. There’s no one there except the five of them (if you count Roman), and suddenly it all feels unspeakably big and Virgil feels unspeakably small, like he’s being swallowed up into the underbelly of a whale.

“What is this place?” Logan asks.

No one has an answer for him.

They keep walking.

And walking and walking.

Red Plume leads them down the leftmost hallway, which is similar to the large entry space, except much smaller. There’s a distant sound of water running. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s beautiful here, but cold. And empty. (Drip. Drip. He can hear Logan breathing. Patton’s humming under his breath. Drip. Drip.) Virgil hugs his hoodie tighter around himself.

“What’s your name?” Patton asks Red Plume, trying to make conversation. The silence has become a bit stifling.

Red Plume blinks at him, puzzled. “My… name?”

“Yeah,” Patton says. “For example, I’m Patton!” He tries to hold out a hand for a handshake, but remembers he’s holding Roman, stumbles and almost drops him, sending both him and Logan veering sideways. Logan very nearly smacks his face against the wall.

Patton quickly yanks his hand back.

“I think they know what a name is,” says Virgil.

Red Plume opens their mouth, and then closes it. And then opens it again. “That’s classified,” they say tightly.

“... Do you  _ have _ a name?” asks Logan, after a beat.

“No talking!” Red Plume yells. “Just walk!”

After what could’ve been either twenty seconds or four hours— no in between — the hallway ends. And there is a door.

Thankfully, it looks like a very normal door. It’s made of wood and has a metal doorknob, normal-sized and unassuming. There is no golden light emanating from the cracks along the side, no spiderwebs or or padlocks or empty-looking entryways.

However, there is a knocker. It is shaped like a walrus experiencing a gruesome death. Or perhaps that’s a manticore-chimera. Either way, Virgil averts his eyes.

Red Plume steps forward and knocks twice. The sound that emits from it can most closely be compared to the noise that a plate full of sugar cookies makes when dropped on the floor. Logan winces.

The door at once swings open with a loud creak, seemingly on its own. Reluctantly, after some urging from Red Plume that involves them pointedly admiring the dagger on their belt, they step inside. 

This room that they enter is just that. A room. Still fairly large but not overwhelming in its size, mostly empty but for a long table, artfully draped in dark grey cloth, with set with four chairs, all on one side, facing away from them.

On the other side of the table is another chair, also set with its back to them, this one larger, throne like, all black leather and swirling silver handles and inset with tiny purple gems. There’s a single hand resting on the armrest, its gloved fingers tapping lazily on the metal.

The space is dimly lit, dark around the edges, but a spotlight of sorts is fixed on the throne, making it seem like it’s floating, alone and stark amidst the inky air. It feels like the kind of place you could drown in, despite there being no water in sight. Virgil grabs Logan’s wrist. Just to make sure.

Virgil faintly registers Red Plume slipping out the door and shutting it behind them with a soft ‘click’, but most of his attention is going to the fact that the chair is beginning to turn, slowly swiveling to face them. Some creepy music is playing softly in the background. It sounds suspiciously like  _ Never Gonna Give You Up _ slowed down to ¼ speed.

But there’s no time to judge whoever thought  _ that _ was funny, because now the throne is facing them, and there sits…  a man.

He’s dressed in a strange, eclectic style that can only be described as “medieval grunge.” Virgil finds it personally offensive that his life has brought him to a position where those two words can be used in the same sentence.

He’s wearing a black leather biker jacket with the sleeves cut off, featuring studs patterned across the shoulders and collar a ridiculous amount of zippers. This is worn over a floaty poet shirt, which in turn is paired with a pair of old-fashioned trousers tucked into lace-up black combat boots that go up to mid calf.

He sits sideways on the chair, an arm resting across the back, a leg tossed over opposite armrest and the other disappearing under the table.

“If it isn’t the sides themselves,” he drawls from around the green straw stuck in the left side of his mouth, taking a slow sip of his Starbucks drink, which is a mildly concerning shade of pink. “Popping in for a visit, are we? How  _ fantastic _ .”

Logan and Virgil exchange cautious looks.

“Excuse me,” says Patton, raising his hand like he’s in school. “I have a question.”

The person nods at him. “Shoot.”

“Who…   _ are _ you?”

“I’m Remy, boo,” he winks. With a flourish of his hand, the darkness disappears, and the room is bathed in a flood of blue-tinted light, flickering manically before it settles into a gentle, lulling hum, a soft stretch of icy paleness making everything encompassed by it look vaguely blurry around the edges. “They call me Sleep. The Sandman.” 

His lips curl into a grin, unhurried, slow and silvery, blindingly white teeth gleaming like a shark’s. “Welcome to my realm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh. heh. let’s just pretend it hasn’t been 2 months since part one. i was going to split this one up but there was no good place to do it so :/ would you all rather have more frequent, shorter chapters, or less frequent ones of about this length?
> 
> roast me if you see a typo, and as always, comment to trick me into writing more :))


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